We clustered at last into our inner council-room, at the door of which the usher makes us sign our names. What a page last night's will be for the enjoyment of posterity! We gradually settled into our places; Lord Tennyson in his presidential chair, Lecky in his post of permanent secretary; our excellent paid secretary hurrying about with papers, and explaining to us the routine. It seemed more like a club than ever at that moment, our charming Academy, with the best of all possible society. As I sat waiting for business to begin, my thoughts ran more and more upon the unfortunate candidature of the Archbishop. I reflected on what the Duke of Argyll had said, the wretchedness of the one vote. He should, at least, have two, I determined; and I asked my neighbour, Mr. Frederic Harrison, if he knew what Dr. Benson had published. "I have an idea," he replied, "that he is the author of a work entitled The Cathedral: its Necessary Place in the Life and Work of an Academy."
Our proceedings were interrupted for a moment by the entrance of Cardinal Manning, who desired to be permitted, before the election began, to add to the names of the candidates that of Mr. W. T. Stead. At this there was a general murmur, and Mr. Lang muttered: "If it comes to that, I propose Bridge" (or "Brydges"—I could not catch the name). The Cardinal continued: "I know I have a seconder for him in my eminent friend opposite." We all looked across at Archdeacon Farrar, who objected, with considerable embarrassment: "No, no; when I said that, I did not understand what the final list of candidates was to be. I must really decline." The Cardinal then turned to Mr. John Morley, who shook his head. "The Academy will have more need of Mr. Stead ten years hence, perhaps, than it has now." And with that the incident terminated.
The moment had at last arrived, and we expected a prolonged session. By a system of successive ballotings, we have to work on until one candidate has a positive majority; this may take a long time, and may even fail to be accomplished. The President rang his bell, and the names were pronounced by the secretary:
| Edward White Benson, Archbishop of Canterbury, |
| Samuel Rawson Gardiner, |
| Thomas Hardy. |
As soon as he had recorded his vote, our venerable President left us; the remainder of the company awaited the result with eager curiosity. The general opinion seemed to be that the votes for Gardiner and Hardy would prove pretty equal, and I began to feel a little qualm at having thrown mine away. But when Mr. Gladstone, taking the President's chair, rang his bell, and announced the result of the voting, it is not too much to say that we were stupefied. The votes were thus divided:
| The Archbishop of Canterbury | 19 |
| Gardiner | 8 |
| Hardy | 7 |
| Blank votes | 3 |
There was, accordingly, no need for a second ballot, since the Archbishop had secured a positive majority of the votes. I felt a little uncomfortable when I reflected that my vote, if loyally given to Gardiner, would have necessitated a reopening of the matter. Never mind. Better as it is. The election is a very good one, from a social point of view particularly.
The company dispersed rather hurriedly. On the stairs, where Mr. Arthur Balfour was offering his arm to Lord Selborne, I heard the latter say, "We may congratulate ourselves on a most excellent evening's work, may we not?" Mr. Balfour shook his head, but I did not catch his reply; he seemed to have lost something of his previous good spirits.
This morning the daily papers are in raptures, the Gladstonians as much as the Unionists. A great honour, they all say, done to the profession of literature. "Quite a social triumph," the Morning Post remarks; "a bloodless victory in the campaign of letters"—rather happy, is it not? But one of those young men of the National Observer, who was waiting for me outside the Academy last night, and kindly volunteered to see me home to the hotel—where he was even good enough to partake of refreshment—was rather severe. "Not a single writer in the d——d gang of you," he said. A little coarse, I thought; and not positively final, as criticism.